


Awaiting Recovery

by Jadesfire



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-20
Updated: 2008-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:29:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1638965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadesfire/pseuds/Jadesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the first Christmas Napoleon had been off-duty for five years.  He should have known better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awaiting Recovery

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Karaoekegal and Greyias for hand-holding, patience and beta.
> 
> Written for jamestkirkesq

 

 

Napoleon eventually tracked Illya down at the top of the UNCLE building, sitting on an old deckchair with his foot propped up and his glasses halfway down his nose. 

"Did you get permission to leave the infirmary, or should I be turning you in?" Snagging one of the hard upright chairs from by the door, Napoleon strolled over and set it down next to Illya's. It was a good spot, catching what little sunlight could be had on this gloomy January day. 

"If you don't tell them, then I won't tell Doctor Young who sent her that Valentine's card," Illya said, without looking up. 

"Sneaky Russian." Not that Napoleon blamed him. While the doctors always did a good job of piecing them back together, there wasn't a field agent worth his badge who'd stay in bed for a minute longer than he had to. The sun terrace was quiet at this time of year, if a little chilly. Illya had a blanket draped over him from knees to chest, probably also stolen from the infirmary. He still looked a little pale, the dark circles under his eyes looking almost like bruises, while the actual bruises on his jaw had more or less faded. Considering the state he'd been in when he'd been brought into headquarters on New Year's Eve, Napoleon supposed he didn't look too bad. Trust Illya to find trouble when his partner was out of town and everyone else was having the day off. It was the first Christmas Napoleon had been off-duty for five years. He should have known better.

Tilting his head a little, Napoleon peered over Illya's shoulder. "What are you reading?"

For answer, Illya lifted the book for him to see. "Mr Waverly asked me to update the latest code book while I was recuperating."

As usual, Napoleon wasn't quite sure what to make of his superior's sense of humor. On the one hand, no one was ever going to suspect that an edition of _The Girl Hunters_ by Mickey Spillane actually contained a hidden code to allow UNCLE agents to write and decipher messages. On the other hand, it therefore required all field agents to own a copy of _The Girl Hunters_ by Mickey Spillane, which was a possible drawback. 

"At least it's better than last year's _Return to Peyton Place_ ," he said, leaning back in his chair as best he could. "At least I can hide this one with some Chandler and Hammett. Which won't look nearly as out of place on my bookshelves.s"

"What did you camouflage Ms Metalious' work with?" Illya asked, turning the page. "The entire Mills and Boon back catalog?" When Napoleon maintained his mysterious silence, Ilya looked up. "You didn't."

"I might have." Napoleon grinned, just a little. "Except the Harlequin novels had much better covers that year."

Shaking his head, Illya went back to the book. "I'm not sure you'll find much higher literary merit in this year's offering."

"I suppose you'd rather it was something gloomy and worthy. Dostoevsky? Tolstoy?"

"I don't see why it has to be a novel at all," Illya said, making a note in the margin. "There are some fine editions of Chekhov available. Or Pushkin."

"Do you think everyone could handle that much Russian poetry?" 

"Possibly not." Illya turned another page, then glanced over at Napoleon. "What would you prefer? Chandler? Not Ian Fleming, I assume. A little too obvious, don't you think?"

"A little, perhaps. Maybe something French. _Remember that all the known world is governed by books._ "

It only took Illya a second to catch up. "Descartes?"

"Voltaire. Abridged." Leaning over, Napoleon pulled the book out of Illya's hands. "But then I suppose that would be even more conspicuous on most people's bookshelves than the complete works of Tolstoy."

"It could arouse suspicion, true." Illya pulled his glasses off and closed his eyes, folding his hands in his lap. "What about Shakespeare? _Your face is as a book where men may read strange matters_ seems rather appropriate."

"Macbeth," Napoleon supplied automatically. "And I would have said just the opposite, in your case at least." 

Neither of them had broached the subject of Illya's capture and rescue, not yet. Little more than a week had passed, and Illya had slept through most of it. He looked tired now, resting his head against the back of the chair. It would have to happen at some point, the inevitable debriefings with the meaningless questions. How did it happen? Why did it happen? What did you tell them? At least Napoleon knew the answer to that last one, the way he always did. A broken ankle and scarred leg wasn't exactly getting off lightly, but it could have been worse, and it certainly wasn't enough to worry about Illya breaking, for all that he'd been in enemy hands for almost a week. As for the other two questions, _occupational hazard_ probably served as enough answer for both. 

As if sensing his thoughts, Illya's lips twitched. "My head is bloody but unbowed," he said, shifting a little. "Well. My leg was, but that doesn't scan as well."

"How is-"

"It will heal." 

That was probably enough for now. Napoleon flicked through a few pages of the Spillane, noticing where Illya had underlined or crossed out words. Once it was finished, copies of this book could be life or death to the whole of Section 2, all the people who worked for him. All those people in all those countries, depending on this novel and the alterations his partner was making to it. He'd been head of Enforcement for three years, and there were still times that it made his head spin, if he let it. Introspection wasn't exactly part of his job description, for good reason.

He lifted his head to find Illya watching him, expression apparently blank. If you didn't know him. Napoleon shrugged. "Make sure you get your spelling right," he said, passing the book back. 

"Of course." Illya hesitated for a moment, then said, "I'll have my report on your desk tomorrow. Mr Waverly will want it soon."

Napoleon nodded, pushing back the instinct to say it didn't matter. Of course it mattered. It was insulting to both of them to pretend that it didn't. They'd known each other four years, been partners for two, and had both worked for UNCLE for too long for this to be something they lied to each other about. Other things, of course. But this, the life they lived, the job they did, the risks they ran? Never. Not when it could get them killed.

"Have you seen Hendricks?" Napoleon asked. They never attached 'doctor' to the name of UNCLE's resident psychologist. Doctors put them back together; they didn't take them apart to see how they ticked.

"He dropped by my hospital bed." The tightness in Illya's voice hinted at the kind of reception the visit had received. "Apparently, I am still insane enough to work as an UNCLE agent."

That sounded about right, and Napoleon just about held back his laugh. " _Show me a sane man and I will cure him for you_ ," he said, adding, "Jung," when Illya shook his head.

"You're sure it wasn't Mr Waverly?" 

"Probably." Sighing a little, Napoleon spared a thought for the mountain of holiday paperwork piling up on his desk. "How long will you be off-duty?" he asked, wondering how long you were supposed to wait before palming off your work to an injured colleague. If Mr Waverly already had Illya working on next year's code book, Napoleon's paperwork probably wouldn't have to wait long. Which reminded him. "Here," he said, pulling the small package from his pocket and handing it over. "Merry Christmas."

Illya blinked for a moment, the brown paper crackling under his fingers. "Christmas was two weeks ago, Napoleon."

"The twenty-fifth of December was two weeks ago. Today is the seventh of January."

Illya was still looking at him as though Napoleon was the one with a head injury in his recent past. "Yes, thank you. I believe I already knew that." He started to put his glasses on, then stopped, tilting his head a little. Napoleon could almost hear the penny drop, in the half-second before his lips twitched in the closest Illya normally got to a grin. "The seventh of January," he repeated, glancing over. " _S'Rozhdestvom Kristovym_."

Napoleon's Russian had improved over the last few years, but he didn't need a translator for that one. He shrugged, apparently casually. "Well, you people will insist on using the wrong calendar. And you were inconsiderate enough to disappear on Christmas Eve."

"My apologies," Illya murmured, gently pulling the book from its bag. "I will endeavor not to repeat the mistake."

"See that you don't." Getting to his feet, Napoleon stretched a little, then clapped Illya on the shoulder. "Stay off that foot, okay?"

"Yes, thank you for that insightful advice." But Illya had already opened the book and was slipping his glasses on. It wasn't until Napoleon was halfway through the doorway that he heard the gentle, "Thank you."

Smiling to himself, Napoleon headed back to work, leaving Illya reading behind him.

 _"It's even pleasant to be sick when you know that there are people who await your recovery as they might await a holiday."_ The Story of an Unknown Man, Anton Chekhov

 


End file.
